Lady Mary's Bench
by BennetZia
Summary: My episode 2.2 headcanon. "And then she would go back to missing, hoping, longing and praying to a God she hardly believed was there."


I haven't written anything in ages but I thought it may be nice to check if my grammar and spelling and everything has improved, so therefore I give you Mary's Bench, an one shot about season 2 Matthew at war and Mary at Downton, my favourite Matthew and Mary. Please let me know what you think- áfter you've read it of course.

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_**Lady Mary's Bench**_

Mary walked along the great tree, the one nearest to the bench, the big one she could look at from the view of her bedroom window. Wanting to be left alone in a way she not had known before was very displeasing. She did not want to think of things she was bound to think of every time she only saw the back of his head. She stroked her hands along her golden dress, the prettiest she owned. Aunt Rosamund had brought it back with her from Milan, made especially for Mary. Mary always treasured it, but now, wearing it, it made her feel like the only worth it had was make her look good enough to be appreciated by the best man that would be offered to her, would offer himself _to_ her. How often had she felt that way in company of men? Countless of times, _too_ many times. She felt the embroidery, the beads and the pearls along the silk through her gloves.

It was so peaceful outside- from the few places that had been kept their way out of the war, this place, out here, with the soft wind in her bare neck, was one. She looked down at her shoes, the matching shoes, as she walked, along the gravel, along the grass. The shadows coming from the lights through the windows made all kind of figures on the grounds outstretched in front of her, the moon was not strong enough to get Mary to see much of it.

The bench had always been her bench, even when she'd barely just started reading _Five Little Peppers Grown Up _or _Mildred and Elsie_. She'd been sitting under the bench, hat cast over her face, hidden away from peeking sunlight. Her father would ask her mama, "Where's Mary?" and she would answer him, calling the bench 'Mary's bench'.

_Lady Mary's bench._

It had always felt that way, her favourite place at the whole house, outside, where she could see everyone come and go, watch them from a distance, only letting them know she was there when she felt she wanted to. God knew how often she'd watch Matthew walk along the gravel, or cycle on that ridiculous bike of his, hoping he would not see her, because she liked that, looking at him without him noticing.

Mary had sat there when being only a little girl, watching Sybil play with Isis on the grounds, the nanny yelling at her to be careful because, God forbid, mud would ruin her pink dress. She'd sat there when Edith had her first ride on her new pony. She'd sat there when she'd asked her father for the first, and last time, "Papa, are you disappointed I am a girl?" She could still picture her father's eyes and she would forever be able to.

It was there, on that bench, her grandmother had explained to her simply, as if it was anything near that, "Mary, it is your _duty _to marry Patrick, it is your _duty _to bear his children, to be the mother of his sons." She could remember sitting on the bench, telling Sybil about her first kiss, from Lord Queensburry's eldest son, George.

On that bench she'd told Edith, "No, you can't sit here with us." It was on that bench Mary had asked her mother, "Why does he have to be here? It's rediculous!" The memory from the bench she'd tried to forget most and failed hardest at, was the one of Patrick walking up to her, a few weeks before he had left in February, to never return, "It is our duty to do as our parents wish." Then he'd told her, "We ought to become husband and wife." All she'd done was nod, while her chest was begging her, screaming to tell him _no_, tell them _all_ no, tell herself.

It was on that very same bench, two years later, a springy day of March, she'd been sitting there, and he'd come up to her, after she'd called him. With a hat on top of her head, she'd been reading Anna Karenina, stolen from her father's library in a moment of boldness. Then it could never be just 'Mary's bench' again, from that moment on it was _their_ bench, and she did not care.

The bench where he'd told her she looked pretty once. No one had ever told her she looked pretty like he had, so simple and humble- not with pride, jealousy, please, a need to please or a need to be pleased.

When she finally looked up she saw exactly that back of head she'd been trying to avoid. Standing there, staring at it, it was like she could not ever possibly look away. Her eyes were plastered with the view, so common and yet that no more. For months and months, she longed to see him, hear his voice, look in his eyes, and then, when she finally was able to, she could hardly bring herself to connect with him at all. She was only reminded of the loss, it hurt too much. And then he left again and she'd feel overwhelmed by regret- regret for avoiding him because what if? What if this was possibly the last time? The last time she could see, hear and _touch_ him, ever, in all her life? The last chance.

And then she would go back to missing, hoping, longing and praying to a God she hardly believed was there. What if he heard her but did not listen? She was unworthy, and she would consider herself that for the rest of her time walking on earth. No matter the world changing, she would never, to herself or God, feel whole again, perfect, undamaged. She was left to only regret and hope for forgiveness.

She finally found the power and the will to turn around, walk away, when just as she lifted her foot, she heard her name be called.

"Mary?"

It felt like hearing a song- yet she'd hear him call her name so often in her nightmares, it was enough to make her shiver. She swore with only her lips moving, no sounds escaping, and then she turned around. "Matthew!" She was perfectly aware of how ridiculously cheerful his name was formed by her voice and how it matched the probably horrible look on her face, more than that she knew he'd know.

"I did not see you there!" In a pulse she walked up a few feet towards him. He did not stand up for her (he should but she was glad he did not. It did not fit their relationship, whatever that may was).

He looked down, away from her, at her golden-coloured shoes, his shoulders slumped.

It struck her as reality and yet she questioned it at the same time. Her voice shaky and her heart aching, it was like an instinct when she dropped herself on the bench, next to him, "Matthew, what is it?"

Had she ever believed his eyes could not get any bluer she had still been fortunate enough to have not seen him cry. Now she had, for the very first time, and it stunned her. They twinkled in moonlight as they looked at her in a combination of shock and embarrassment.

A feeling of love and worry, far greater than worries and needs of one's own, overtook her like never before. Perhaps once it would've scared her, now it did not, she was going to be scared no longer.

"M-Mary what are you doing here?"

He'd always found it remarkable (and fascinating) how she could see humour in things the most less funny, "I do _live_ here." A gloved hand placed against his wet cheek burned his skin and his heart started pumping blood through his veins in too quick a speed. He looked away at his trembling hands, clutching the paper, the cause of his grief. "Matthew what is it?" She asked again.

At that he shook his head, unable to tell her, not wanting to, but her words were a plead, a plead that was to him an impossible to ignore wish, "It's nothing it's just.." He gulped and then said stupidly, "I got a letter."

She removed her hand and he'd never missed it that much, "What does it say?" Her eyes were piercing and he wondered if she knew they were.

He shook his head and rubbed his cheek, the one that had felt her glove a mere second before, "It doesn't really, erm.." He coughed awkwardly, "When I was.. away, in Manchester- last year I erm… Well I was best man to.. To a friend's wedding."

"A friend?"

"yeah." His voice was high-pitched and he could taste the salt from his tears on his lips, "We went to school together." He finally looked up at her, "It was about four weeks before we both joined the army and started our training. It was this sort of last-minute wedding, because, you know, they didn't know when they were going to see each other again."

She didn't say anything, just listened, and he remembered how he'd always loved that about her, how she could listen to him speak, with interest, without saying a word.

He shook his head again, in a way of trying to calm himself, and when another single tear ran down his cheek her heart broke, "We trained together and afterwards we wrote sometimes and it was nice because we had all these memories of us at school, and he remembered my _father_- no one remembers my father except my mother and I just can't.. I can't talk to her about him, I could talk to no one about him." Now he had to look away because her worry had exchanged itself for pity, "He had a daughter in '16, only four months old now, I've never heard anyone be more proud, he'd never seen her but he kept this picture of her with him. He hoped she wouldn't start walking before he'd be able to see her. She was half a year old and he'd n-never been able to see her."

When he stopped talking she took his hand between hers, it trembled and was clenched but as soon as she started rubbing her thumb along it, it seemed to relax, "H-has he died?" She whispered, looking at his set jaw and his deep frown.

He didn't answer but she did not need him to. "Oh Matthew I'm so sorry." She breathed out shakily when he abruptly let her hand go and moved away a little, "it's terrible." She added.

"it _is _terrible; me sitting here, _sobbing_ like a child."

"You don't have to be emba-"

"Embarrassed?" He finished and now, looking in his eyes she no longer saw sadness, she saw despair, _hate, _one that was not in any way meant for her but still it pained her greatly, "I am, I'm ashamed." He gulped, "When I'm _there _the only emotion that ever crosses my path is fear, nothing else, just fear and boredom and- I don't now- _hate_. I suppose that's it. What does that mean?" She'd never heard his voice be so hoarse, she'd never seen him be so upset or troubled, "Now I'm _here_," He made a hand gesture towards the house, "And everything's different."

"I know."

"You _don't._" He glared at her, "You all think you know but none of you do. You read the newspapers, hear the stories but you-_don't_-know, you have _no idea, _not until you've been there. And that's why-" Out of sudden he stopped and the frown disappeared, he looked away and stared blankly ahead of himself, slumped and breathing quickly.

"What?" her whisper seemed to make him realise it was her she was talking to and he looked up, his eyes no longer glaring, he didn't look angry anymore, just troubled and pained.

"I don't want to tell you." He said softly, barely loud enough for her to hear it, "I don't want you to know." His voice was so hoarse now she hardly recognised it.

At that she grabbed the sleeve of his jacket between her fingers, "Matthew," She said, loud and clear, "There is absolutely no way I'm going to let you sit here without talking to me."

Her saying that was rather odd. They'd spent two years not talking, and he would admit at any time he was the one to be blamed for that, yet it did not change the fact.  
Her voice knew so much determination he would've smiled, he would've grinned at her, looked in her eyes and grabbed her hand back in his- but he could no longer do these things, they were from another time, another world and another Matthew. But she, _Mary, _she was so wonderfully the same and he couldn't have her change. He just couldn't Look at her beautiful face watch him with concern and something wonderfully close to affection, it made his stomach ache with longing. He bit his lip and quickly looked away, "Mary I'm.. I don't deserve pity."

"What are you saying?" She moved her hand from his sleeve to his fingers and she intertwined them with hers.

"I'm saying- I'm not just sad because of Christopher, I mean, I _am _but it's just, it's complicated."

She raised her dark-brown eyebrows, "I don't care." She spoke her words simply.

He smiled to himself, "I would've been suprised if you had."

his smile made her smile, "I'm glad."

At sudden his facial expressions softened, the sudden it was cold again, "I mean it Mary." He said and she hated the way he spoke her name, more she hated the way he removed his hand from hers, "You wouldn't understand."

"You won't know that unless I try." She said.

"You won't agree with me."

"As if I ever do." She'd made him smile again, twice now, and it gave her hope though she did not quite know for what exactly.

"I'm not sure if it's worth it."

"It doesn't matter."

He closed his eyes for a second and then Lavinia crushed his mind. Pretty, sweet, kind, loving Lavinia. She would've stopped asking him about it at the minute he'd asked her to. She would never have forced him to tell her about thoughts he'd been keeping to himself for over two years now. He had hardly spoken to her about the war at all, he'd hardly spoken to _anyone _about the war, he hadn't been able to.

"Christopher was killed."

"Yes."

"During a fight. I don't know exactly what sort it doesn't say. It only says he had an _heroic_ death during battle.." His voice was drawn by scorn, "He's been killed by a German." He choose his words carefully, "And everyone hates that German for it."

"Of course they do."

He looked up again, "And that's why you won't understand." He said, not angrily nor reproachfully but like it was a clear fact.

"Why not?" All these small questions had never given her such complicated and long answers before, not all at once.

"Because that German, he's exactly like me."

"Matthew, you're the complete opposite of him!" Her face showed disbelieve at such nonsense.

Matthew shook his head, "No. I mean, _yes_, in a way I am, but I'm also completely the same."

At that she had nothing to say, the only thing she could do was wait for an explanation.

"He's doing exactly what I've been doing for _two_ years Mary." His voice was getting high-pitched again, "He's fighting for his king and country, thinking he's doing the right thing, he's being called a hero at home yet all he does is _kill _people and how is that ever supposed to be _good_? At school, reading fairytales when we're kids, we don't learn that killing people is _good, _we learn it's _wrong_. All these men dying, these deaths, they're all worthless. I don't want to kill men who are doing the same thing I am doing. I don't _want_ to kill someone just because he's _German_ and supposed to be the 'enemy'."

She truly was speechless now, had no word in her head she might be able to say out loud if necessary, but she did not have to, now he was speaking, the words rolled out of his mouth like he spoke them every day. Perhaps he did, in his head, he'd been speaking them for many weeks now.

"The first time I- It wasn't from distance and I can still remember so well. He was captured and he was actually younger than I was, eighteen or something, just a kid, and his eyes- they were _huge- _and he was trembling all over, I didn't understand a word he of what he was saying of course, but I knew he was begging me and everyone was laughing-" Tears rolled down and the next few words were sobs, "They were _laughing _Mary." He rubbed the tears away aggressively, "In the back I heard people discussing if they were going to hang him or if they would just shoot him and when they decided on hanging him I-" He hid his face in his hands and she no longer could stop herself from wrapping her arms around his shoulders. The warmth of his body was something she thought of so often and it was nowhere near the way she remembered it to be, not like this.

He did not respond to her embrace, how _could _he do that, not in this state, not the way they were but God knew he wanted to, more than anything he wanted to turn and hide his face in her shoulder, smell her scent and kiss her neck. "I knew shooting him would be- less painful." He cleared his throat, "So I- Well…" He looked at her with something she wished was not annoyance, "I suppose you want to tell me now I did the right thing."

Her voice was clear, "You did."

"_No_." He said fiercely, "The right thing would've been pulling him back out of the mud and bringing him personally over to wherever the hell he came from. That thought should disappear when you realise they would do the same thing to you." A humourless smile crossed his lips, "I won't ever forget him. He was ridiculously ugly you know, he really was." He sighed, "And I _hate _the language but I swear that doesn't cross your mind when you recognise someone begging for his mother in it- somewhere." He breathed in and out slowly, "When it happens I feel this _pang_ in my chest, it's all-consuming but it gets less bad every time until it's hardly there anymore. You recognise you're in a world without humanity when people make games about the one who can kill the biggest amount." He looked at her with a raised eyebrow, "_There_." He said, "That's what you wanted from me, I suppose you still disagree."

"What could I disagree with?" She whispered, staring at him, wide-eyed but not the slightest bit in regret she had demanded him to tell her all this. How could she possibly regret attemtping to take a bit of the weight from his shoulders by listening? It was the last thing she could do, to be at least a little bit useful. She now longer had her arms around him as he'd pushed them away in his struggle with himself.

"I suppose you still think I'm a good person. that I _deserve_ everyone praising me and proudly looking at me." He scoffed and looked at his hands, intertwined.

"I don't know." She said, "You're doing what you think is right, don't you?"

"I'm doing what I _thought_ was right." He shook his head, "Chris' daughter is going to have to grow up without a father, she'll never know him and everyone will mourn him like a fallen hero. _Heroic death_." He rubbed his forehead, "And now I'm reading about the death of my old schoolmate and all I'm thinking is; I have no idea how many children I've robbed of their father, maybe I've killed husbands or brothers or sons or fiance's or-"

"Cousins."

He blinked and looked at her, almost in awe it seemed. She smiled at him lovingly, though of course he would never dare see it like that, _call_ it that, he would refuse himself to think it was anything close to being a friendly offered smile. "Matthew," She whispered, some tears threatening to leave the corners of her eyes. He wanted to kiss them away. "How dare you listen to yourself speaking like that and still believe you're a bad person?"

"Because I- Because I'm still doing it. I know it's wrong but I'm still… I don't know but it makes me _hate_ myself, I feel _weak. _Like I don't have the guts to refuse."

Her smile disappeared and her piercing eyes returned. Slowly she moved her hand, gloved in black, along his arm, over his shoulder, to his chest. She gulped as she felt him stare at her so intensely, still frowning deeply, "I can feel your heartbeat." She lied, he was wearing far too many layers of all kind of clothes to feel anything but cotton, "You have a good heart Matthew." She told him solemnly, "And I'm not saying that because I'm trying to cheer you up, I mean it."

He stared at her so deeply, for a second she believed he was going to close the gap between them and kiss her, the lord knew she would not stop him even if Sir Richard was standing right in front of them, armed with Lavinia, "I know you mean it." He said instead, and he pulled her hand away, "But I'm not _me_ anymore Mary."

"Of course you're you!" She smiled breathlessly, trying to hide how ridiculously upset she was, "I'm offended you think I wouldn't notice if you weren't."

He frowned at her and she recognised a bit of scorn and amusement in the look he gave her, "You haven't changed a bit." He noted, and then he added, without a smile, "Please never change."

It brought the most honest smile to her face since that whole day, "No one has ever wanted me to _not _change." She grinned and felt his returning smile burn through her body.

"they don't know the real you."

He opened his mouth to say something else but then they heard a voice call Mary's name. She turned around to look at Edith, standing there, frowning through the darkness, "Isobel and Lavinia are ready to go home."

Mary nodded and Matthew stood up, "I'm coming." He told her. Edith gave them one last suspecting glare and then turned around and walked off.

Mary quickly got off the bench and suddenly felt terribly out of place and awkward, "Well," The fake smile had once again returned to her faithfully, the whole moment, the feeling of comfort and ease, it was gone, once again, but Mary knew that this time, she would not be left behind fearing she had missed a chance by avoiding him, "I'll see you soon of course."

She wanted to walk away and he let her, but for a second he imagined pulling her on her arm, towards him, and hug her closely. He wanted to _tell_ her so badly, all he felt, but he knew what she would say, how she would respond, he'd learned his lesson once and he did not need to learn it again. All he could do was call after her as he looked at her perfect figure moving over towards the house,

"Mary?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me."


End file.
